Running from Hillman
red-handed and sleep-deprived
we stole beets from the garden née
cabbage patch by The Porch;
a kindness, a red reminder—
that hour of night just before
morning, when the essay’s
been written and the coffee cold
— cup nearly empty
between my palm and yours;
Run, honey.
honey, we’re beet thieves now,
nowhere to hide but
here,
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